Point of View
by scrub456
Summary: A case goes very wrong. *Towel Day prompt, featuring John whump*
1. very dangerous

***Author's Note***

"It can be very dangerous to see things from somebody else's point of view without the proper training." ― Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless

The criminal in this story is named Alec Cunningham after the murderer in the original ACD tale, "The Adventure of the Reigate Squire," and I make mention of stolen documents.

* * *

John's last thought, the one memory his battered, exhausted mind chose to recall, just after the heel of the booted foot landed with crushing force on the fingers of his right hand, but right before the cricket bat designed for a child connected with his head, was something Sherlock said right after they'd first met.

 _"Yeah, but if you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?"_

The instant his assailant shifted his weight back to swing again, John pulled his hand free, mumbled, "Please God, don't let Sherlock be the one who finds me," and let go.


	2. to see things

Sherlock fumbled the lock pick tools and scrambled to stand up as the flat door swung open from the inside. The man, Alec Cunningham, they'd once believed to be the victim of a high profile robbery, though now knew to be their suspect - a previously non-violent smuggler who'd been outwitted by a consulting detective and his blogger - lunged through the door brandishing a large kitchen knife.

Blocking the blow, but not before the edge of the blade tore through the sleeve of his great coat, Sherlock quickly sidestepped. They grappled for the knife, until Sherlock battered Cunningham's wrist against the door jamb, forcing him to drop the weapon. With a roar, Cunningham, only inches taller than Sherlock, but more broadly built, backhanded him sending him staggering back.

They both spotted the child sized cricket bat laying abandoned and dove for it. Cunningham had the advantage of bulk over Sherlock's speed, and used the bat to knock him off his feet. He grabbed Sherlock by the hair and knock his head into the wall, leaving him momentarily stunned.

Cunningham escaped through the building's front door, and Sherlock hoped, right into John's path. He dug for his mobile as he tried to push himself upright. Before he could type out a text, he received one from John.

 **firescape. roofg**

Resolving to teach John the finer points of texting while on the run, Sherlock sent their location to Lestrade, and after a few halting, unsteady steps, ran down the hall to the stairwell. He charged up the four storeys, only gasping and leaning on the handrails through bouts of dizziness twice, to find the rooftop access door rusted with disuse.

Sherlock could hear the muffled sound of voices on the other side. He couldn't hear their words, but he could hear the rage and panic in Cunningham's shouting. The calming pace of whatever John was saying seemed to be having little effect.

There was the sound of a struggle, and Sherlock remembered the cricket bat. He beat on the door, kicking it, trying to get it to budge. John shouted once, and then there was silence. With the full force of all his strength, Sherlock hit the door with his shoulder. It ground open with a terrible squeal and Sherlock fell through.

Dragging himself to his feet, he scanned the rooftop. Just ahead of him stood Alec Cunningham up on the ledge, panting with exertion, and staring down over the edge of the building.

"John." Sherlock rasped. "Where's John?"

Cunningham's shoulders slumped and he dropped the bat beside him.

"What did you do?" With a destraught roar, Sherlock charged Cunningham, dragged him off the ledge and threw him to the roof. With one hand around his throat, Sherlock punched him. Cunningham didn't fight back. "Where is he?" Sherlock hit him again.

"I'm sorry," Cunningham choked, tears were running down his face. Sherlock hit him again. "I'm sorry," he whispered through a bleeding mouth.

Still gripping him by the neck, Sherlock lifted Cunningham's face toward his own. "If he's dead…" the words caught in his throat, and Sherlock hit him hard enough to knock him out.

Gasping for breath, Sherlock half stumbled, half crawled to where Cunningham had been standing. He saw the blood, saw the evidence of struggle. Shaking his head in denial and chanting a litany of "John. Johnjohnjohnjohn. John. Please John," Sherlock leaned over the ledge.

With a shattered cry, he collapsed to his knees.


	3. somebody else's point of view

"Fucking hell," John shouted as he charged up the fire escape. "Alec, is this really necessary?"

"I'm not going to jail!" He hesitated, and John watched him consider throwing the bat.

Taking advantage of the lull, John pressed on, thankful, for once, for a well maintained fire escape. "Just… talk to the police."

"Sod off!" Cunningham continued his ascent and disappeared over the roof ledge.

"Shite," John groaned and proceeded up the last few steps cautiously. He paused to listen, crouched low, and didn't hear anything at all. He raised his head, taking his time, trying to get a good view of the rooftop. "Alec, let's be reasonable."

With a roar, Cunningham jumped out and swung the bat at John's head, just missing. Before John could dive over the low wall of the ledge, Cunningham grabbed him by the hair and dragged him onto the roof. He shook him hard, threw him down and landed two solid kicks to John's ribs before he even had time to respond.

"Alec!" John panted. "Alec, stop. You don't want to do this." He rolled to his knees, and doubled over with a cough.

"No, I didn't _want_ to get caught." He took his advantage and hit John across the back with the bat twice. John fell forward and caught himself just before he landed on his face. "But you just wouldn't leave it alone. Why wouldn't you leave it alone?"

Cunningham loomed over him, breathing hard. "You want justice?" He kicked John in the side, rolling him to his back. "You're gonna have to fight me for it." He punched John, splitting his lip.

"Maybe you didn't notice," John spit blood. "Sherlock doesn't give a shit about justice. He cares about the law. Your assistant reported the stolen documents." He pressed his arm across his chest and groaned. "You should have just come clean."

Raising the bat, Cunningham roared unintelligibly. John braced himself and kicked his knee out from under him with a sickening crunch. He forced himself to move, stumbling toward the door. Cunningham grabbed ahold of John's ankle and dragged him back down.

They struggled briefly, Cunningham banged John's face to the floor three times before John could elbow him in the face, definitely breaking his nose. John rolled away and managed to get to his feet, retrieving his gun from the depth of his jacket.

Cunningham laughed. "You won't do it." He stood slowly.

"I don't want to, no." John shifted his double handed hold as his vision blurred. He coughed again and spit more blood. "Fuck."

"That's the difference between us." Cunningham swung the bat just as John doubled over, knocking the gun from his hands. John cried out and tried to protect his head. He swung the bat again and again, a brutal, relentless attack.

John managed a few counter hits, aiming mostly for the weakened knee. He managed to stun Cunningham with a sharp jab to his throat, giving him long enough to crawl to his gun, near the ledge. He glanced over the edge and spotted the balcony just one storey down. Cunningham limped closer, his rage building.

Weighing his options, John scrambled to lower himself over the ledge.


	4. without the proper training

"John. John, don't move." It took every ounce of Sherlock's self restraint not to throw himself over John's chest, gather him into his arms, and carry him himself to the nearest hospital.

He focused, instead, on holding John's head steady where it rested on Lestrade's folded jacket. Sherlock's own great coat was draped over John's body where he'd landed.

Sherlock could read it all. John had landed poorly, a possible broken ankle to show for it. He'd stumbled backward and hit his head on a small cast iron cafe table. With the head trauma already inflicted by Cunningham, the risk for skull, spine and brain injury was more alarming than Sherlock cared to consider.

John groaned and stirred.

"Don't move, John." Sherlock's hands stayed firmly in place, and he told himself that was as good an excuse as any for the tears running unchecked down his cheeks. He tried to regulate his ragged breathing. "Just breathe, John. Keep breathing. And don't panic."

"Sher… Sh…" John moaned, his eyes fluttered but didn't open. He didn't move at all.

"John, don't move, but… Can you look at me? Please, John. _Please._ I just need…" Sherlock heaved a quiet sob. "Oh, John."

It took considerable effort, but John forced his eyes open. He groaned and blinked sluggishly up at Sherlock. His reaction was slow, but eventually there was recognition. "Shr'luh."

"That's right, John," Sherlock huffed a shaking breathy laugh. "There you are." He brushed his fingers along the sides of John's face, taking extra care around the bruises.

"Sher…" John's eyes drooped closed. He struggled to open them, a single tear ran slowly down. "Sher… so-s'rry."

"John." Sherlock shook his head. "Oh, John, no. No."

John swallowed and winced. "Hurt."

"Yes, you've sustained several potentially severe injuries. It will take time, but you… you'll be fine. You… You have to be fine, John."

John made a distressed sound and tried to tilt his head to see Sherlock more clearly.

Sherlock shushed him and carefully scooted around so John could see him with more ease.

"Hurt… you." John heaved a breath, and groaned.

"Breathe, John. Don't hyperventilate. Your ribs are damaged. Just… breathe. Slowly, now." Sherlock continued slowly moving his fingers against the unmarred sections of John's scalp. "I'm okay, John. No real harm done."

"No," John tried to shake his head. Sherlock held him still. "I… I hurt you."

"You? Oh, John…" Sherlock leaned over him, so he could look him in the eyes. "It was a terrible plan. Jumping off a building. A bit not good, that." He fought a sob.

John didn't try to hide his own distress. He mouthed _sorry._

"Hey, no." Sherlock moved his hands just enough to cup John's face. "You did what you had to do to survive." He leaned down and brushed a light kiss on John's brow. "You terrified me. I thought… John, I…" Sherlock cleared his throat and shook his head. "I understand now… Ah, I feel I owe you a great many apologies."

John hummed and let his eyes drift shut. "No… J-jus' stay."

"Of course, John." He pressed a light kiss to John's battered cheek. He looked up to see Lestrade leading a team of medics through the flat.

"Hold on, John."


	5. it can be

*** A/N ***

Required tropey Hollywood medical scene.

* * *

"...hope you know I'm just going to keep talking until you wake up. You know I'm capable."

John heard the voice, _that_ voice, before the words registered.

"You'll never have a moment's peace. Not until you wake up." Sherlock's voice broke. "You have to wake up. Your other injuries are... Your spine, everything is fine. Will be fine. But you have to wake up. I keep telling them how clever you are. You're making me look bad, John. And that just isn't on."

The pressure of Sherlock's hand holding John's suddenly disappeared.

John groaned… Tried to groan… To get the hand back.

"John? John are you…" The warm pressure appeared up by his face. Gentle. Calming. "Please," Sherlock whispered.

John's eyes fluttered open, then closed again. Even with the lights dimmed it was too much, too bright. More slowly he tried again, taking his time to focus on one thing at a time.

Sherlock waited for John to focus on him before he moved or spoke again. "John," he breathed, searching John's eyes for recognition.

"Sherlock." John managed a small smile before his eyes drifted closed again. "Stay?"

"Always, John."


End file.
